


A Story of Their Own

by Landi_Elliot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Antony and Cleopatra, Crowley has imagination, Gen, Humor, London, Love, M/M, Macbeth is cursed, Metafiction, References to Hamlet, References to Shakespeare, Scotland, Shakespeare Quotations, Shakespeare is annoying, The Globe, Theatre, Unresolved Romantic Tension, and how to kill it, but in a way it is resolved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-07 16:03:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20820041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Landi_Elliot/pseuds/Landi_Elliot
Summary: As Crowley and Aziraphale are watching "Hamlet" in the almost empty Globe, the demon is composing his own play in his head. He can’t help it: Shakespeare’s tragedies perversely inspire him. Or, as a budding playwright might have put it, they awaken the serpent of his imagination…As this story unfolds, a drama from Aziraphale's past will be revealed, Italy glimpsed, Ovid quoted, a play or two written and rewritten and, perchance, a thing or two will burn. William Shakespeare will be quoted unashamedly at every opportunity. Not always faithfully.





	1. London, 1601. May

_Hamlet_, thought Crowley, as he was approaching the Globe, mud squelching under his black boots. What is this one about, then? He strained his ears for bursts of laughter and cheering of the theatre-goers but he heard none. Wishful thinking, Crowley had to admit to himself. This was definitely not a comedy, and it didn’t bode well. Tragedies did weird things to his imagination, especially when Aziraphale was nearby. And he would be nearby this time: it was the angel who had suggested meeting at the Globe, surrounded by a loud crowd. No sound of the promised crowd, though, none at all.

As Crowley entered the theatre, all he could hear was a woman’s shrill voice, shouting something with a commendable rhythm. Perhaps a comedy, after all? But, alas, no: those were the familiar cries of London. _Kippers! Grapes! Oysters! Oranges!_ Kippers, smirked Crowley. Aziraphale hated kippers wholeheartedly, the very smell of them, so he wouldn’t even touch the grapes he loved since they had been in the same tray. Then Crowley sighed. For what he had in mind he had better had a happy angel next to him, preferably nibbling on a grape. _Click_…and the ominous kippers vanished out of the Globe’s memory, smell and all. _Grapes! Oysters! Oranges!_ went the cry. Crowley saw Aziraphale miracling a coin out of the thin air and getting himself some grapes. That’s more like it!

The Globe was virtually empty and Burbage was sweating away on the stage ranting about some troublesome slings and arrows. Better not to listen, or else… Focus on the angel, now.

“I thought you said we’d be inconspicuous here.” Crowley said, just to drown out the words pouring out of Burbage. “Blend in among the crowds.”

They couldn’t be more conspicuous if they tried. Their striking figures, their perfectly tailored outfits of the latest fashion (well, Crowley’s was, while Aziraphale, as usual, was behind the time for a decade or two, although, needless to say, he still looked spectacular, the pompous bugger). Was there a crowd on this sceptre’d isle wherein they could really blend in?

“Well, that was the idea,” replied Aziraphale, unflustered, with a grape in his mouth. I’ll fluster you all right one day, thought Crowley and then he heard someone saying “Hang on”, cutting Burbage off in the middle of the soliloquy. The playwright himself, no doubt, confusing the actual performance with a rehearsal. The man was a disgrace, and yet…

Crowley used this pause to say, “This isn’t one of Shakespeare’s gloomy ones, is it? No wonder nobody’s here.” He was quite proud of the grimace of exasperation he squeezed into this remark. He could be an actor here himself, no doubt about that.

“Shh.” Aziraphale hissed. “It’s him”. He hissed like an angel.

It’s him, really? Crowley raged inside his head. You think I don’t know it’s _him_? Would I mistake this walking farce of a man with anyone else? Just look at his half-strut half-caper (does he think he is a Nymph at the Royal Masque?) as he approaches us and embarks on his little tirade! How can such a nitwit write things that sometimes make Crowley’s skin…well… crawl?

“Prithee, gentles,” said Shakespeare. “Might I request a small favour? Could you, in your role as the audience, give us more to work with?”

Can you _believe_ the man? Aziraphale did though, much to Crowley’s chagrin. Always ready to please, aren’t you, angel?

“You mean, like when the ghost of his father came on, and I said, “He’s behind you!” The beaming look on Aziraphale’s face made Crowley cringe. He felt his imagination stir dangerously. It would start any minute now.

“Just so,” Shakespeare went on, self-importantly. “That was jolly helpful. Made everyone on stage feel appreciated. A bit more of that.”

Aziraphale was beaming in a very theatrical way now, ready to bestow miracles in his role as the audience, and Crowley’s imagination, now officially aroused, uncurled its serpentine body and slithered its way into his head.

It had occurred for the first time during the performance of _Richard III_. Crowley remembered it with heavenly clarity: while Queen Margaret was tearfully asking if curses could pierce the clouds and enter heaven, Crowley suddenly started composing his own lines in his head. Margaret’s “quick curses” would get out of her mouth and slip into a totally different character’s mind, transforming and translating into a demonic rage. A soliloquy of someone who just couldn’t be heard and understood, and was getting ready to rebel once again because of it.

“Good Master Burbage, please. Speak the lines trippingly,” Shakespeare was saying. Was he still talking? It’s a performance, for Satan’s sake, a chance for actors to speak and for the playwright to shut up at a last.

“I am wasting my time up here,” Burbage hissed. Now that was more like proper hissing – are you listening, Aziraphale?

He was. Perfectly entranced.

“No, no, you’re very good!” cried the angel reassuringly. “I love all the… talking.”

Good for you, angel. You love all the talking on the outside and you don’t get all the talking inside your own head. As years passed, Crowley discovered with a horrified amazement that his embarrassing _Richard III_ episode was not a consequence of excessive drinking or a smelly kipper. It was a pattern. He was safe with comedies, but during Shakespeare’s tragedies his imagination would embark on its serpent dance. The play in his head progressed. During _Titus Andronicus_ it reached the end of Act I and could have gone on further, but Aziraphale left before the performance was over. Bloody Titus was too much for the gentle-hearted angel. Crowley could only sigh with relief then, though before the final curtain he wished twice he had also left.

“And what does your friend think?” Burbage asked. The question pulled Crowley out of his reverie, and he tensed predicting Aziraphale’s reply and preparing a nasty smile.

“Oh, he’s not my friend.” said the angel quickly. Here we go, just as I thought. Enter the nasty grin. Go on, angel, are you quite done? He wasn’t.

“We’ve never met before,” added Aziraphale.

Of course, we haven’t. And, annoyingly, infuriatingly, Act II started unfolding in Crowley’s head.

“We don’t know each other,” the angel was saying.

Surely we don’t. And never will, eh?

“I think you should get on with the play.” Crowley said through his Nasty Grin, as two figures entered the stage simultaneously in his head.

“Yes, Burbage. Please. From the top,” intoned the playwright, unaware that he was not the only one playwright around here at the moment.

Crowley had only figured out who his characters were during the performance of _Romeo and Juliet_. It should have been obvious to him from the start, but it took the star-crossed lovers to open his eyes. He could remember Aziraphale alternating nibbling on a bunch of golden grapes and drying his eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. Crowley saw his two heroes in his mind’s eye just then, two figures on the stage, one in a raven cloak, the other in a blindingly white one. As star-crossed as it was possible for two lovers to be, on this earth.

“To be, or not to be,” he heard Burbage recite. For humans there was at least a choice. “That is the question.”

Crowley’s star-crossers had met in Act I and now in his Act II they were going to talk to some other characters, explaining what they admired about each other.

“To be! I mean, _not_ to be! Come on, Hamlet! Buck up!” Aziraphale chirped happily.

The Black one would tell his accidental drinking companion (a pirate in a tavern on a dark and stormy night) that his lover was unbearably cheerful: always eager to rip the darkest, gloomiest hour out of the night’s celestial bosom and fill it with the radiance of hope. Besides, he was the creature whom every thing becomes: to chide, to laugh, to weep, to eat a grape, to watch a play, whether ‘tis mirth or gloom…

“Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows…” Burbage droned on.

The White one would be transfixed with his lover’s cunning mind, subtlety and, above all, his versatility – his total inability to be boring even for a second. Now, how could that be expressed in iambic pentameter?..

“He’s very good, isn’t he?” Aziraphale whispered.

“Age does not wither, nor custom stale his infinite variety.” Crowley realised too late that he had said that out loud. Did the angel think he would say such a thing about Burbage? That was what the White one would say about the Black one. Wouldn’t he?

“Mmm! Yeah, I like that,” this came from Shakespeare. He was actually going to put that down, the sneak. Stealing Crowley’s own lines? From the play that was his secret thing?! He’d regret it.

“To die. To sleep. No more…”

Then Crowley’s play-writing paused since Aziraphale suddenly switched to business. Did he finally realise how bad Burbage was? Or was he jealous about “his infinite variety”? Or just wanted to talk to the demon?

“What do you want?” said the angel and Crowley had to force himself back into the prose of life. Such as it was. It was never too prosaic around Aziraphale.

“Why ever would you insinuate that I might possibly want something?” He almost slipped back into the bloody pentameter but checked himself in time.

“You are up to no good.”

You see? Never too prosaic, this one.

“Obviously. You’re up to good, I take it? Lots of good deeds?”

“No rest for the well… good.”

Crowley made a mental note to insert this exchange in Act II, for comic relief. He would definitely need one there, since he was planning to charge the White one with a long soliloquy on the ineffability, along the lines of “do not grant us what we beg, for our own good, because we are ignorant of ourselves and thus find profit by not getting want we want”. Aziraphale gave him a speech like that once – in the 14th century, wasn’t it? Crowley still wondered that the angel had had the nerve.

“I have to be in Edinburgh at the end of the week,” Aziraphale confided. “A couple of blessings to do. A minor miracle to perform.”

Crowley knew well that Aziraphale despised the tasks assigned to him from above. The angel preferred to choose his own gardens to sow the seeds of blessings and heavenly grace. Crowley had used that before and was going to use it again.

“Apparently, I have to ride a horse,” Aziraphale went on with a charming distaste on his face. Crowley knew exactly how he felt although the angel had it easy. A steady mare would do just fine for him, while Crowley had to ride a black monster of a horse on similar occasions. It was de rigueur for a demon, unfortunately.

“Hard on the buttocks, horses. Major design flaw, if you ask me.”

Although… they would look nice on the stage, horses, wouldn’t they? A black and a white one. Still, there’s this Edinburgh business.

“I’m meant to be heading to Edinburgh too this week.” Crowley said nonchalantly. Aziraphale liked nonchalance and was good at it himself. “Tempting a clan leader to steal some cattle.”

“Doesn’t sound like hard work,” Aziraphale replied illustrating the point about nonchalance.

“The pangs of despised love,” Burbage ranted on the stage. Better not to focus on this. “The law’s delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns of…”

No, Crowley was determined not to hear what the spurns were of. He looked at Aziraphale with a pointed expression.

“That’s why I thought we should…” There was no need to finish the sentence, so Crowley just added a small curve to his lips. Read my lips, angel, read my thoughts, I know you can. And then the words came unbidden. _Eternity was in our lips and eyes…_ but before the whole dialogue slithered into Crowley’s mind, he forced the play out of it and quickly added out loud: “Well, bit of a waste of effort, both of us going all the way to Scotland.”

“You cannot actually be suggesting what I infer you are implying.” Aziraphale said, punctuating his words with little pauses and pouts. Aha, the angel was asking for some proper tempting. He was a sucker for it. Crowley unleashed on his best innocent-sounding-evil-tempter voice. He knew his cue.

“Which is?” Crowley asked.

“That just one of us goes to Edinburgh, does both. The blessing and the tempting.” Aziraphale still played with pauses.

“We’ve done it before.” Crowley timed every word exactly right. “Dozens of times now.”

Was Aziraphale ready for the Word?

“The Arrangement,” Crowley sang.

“Don’t say that!”

Yes, definitely ready. So let’s just take him down a peg with dry pragmatism.

“Our respective head offices don’t actually care how things get done.” Crowley said, deliberately looking away. “They just want to know they can cross it off the list.”

And then Aziraphale stroke where Crowley hadn’t expected him to strike.

“But if Hell finds out, they won’t just be angry, they’ll destroy you,” he said, gently.

New lines blossomed in Crowley’s head like Roses of Hell. _There are no evils bad enough to darken all his goodness: his faults are nothing but the spots of heaven_. It was hard to stop it this time and get back to the conversation. He’s better stop it right now and get away while he could.

“Nobody ever has to know,” he snapped. “Toss you for Edinburgh.”

Agree, Angel, come on, do it, Crowley shouted in his head, haven’t I tempted you properly? And the angel must have read his lips one more time and blurted out, while still shaking his head.

“Fine. Heads.”

Sweet, gullible creature. In _nature’s infinite book of secrecy_ Crowley could always read a bit ahead when it came to tossing coins or dealing cards.

“Tails, I’m afraid,” he said sharply, adding extra dryness and preparing to leave quickly. “You’re going to Scotland.”

“It’s been like this every performance, Juliet,” Shakespeare was complaining to the no-more-kippers-but-buy-the-grapes lady. “Complete dud.”

Well, dud it is, Master Shakespeare, if the only one who seems to be perversely inspired by your tragedies is a demon. As many times before, you got the right word.

“It’d take a _miracle_ to get anyone to come and see _Hamlet_,” added the playwright, and Crowley froze. This word was _too_ right. He knew exactly who was going to be inspired by it. He knew his cue. He looked at Aziraphale to meet his doom.

_That _look. The lines obediently slithered in his mind as if he was still rollicking in the sweet meadows of Eden. _His face was as the heavens in their youth; a sun and moon, still newly made, first started on their course and lit the lonely place we call the earth_. Crowley wondered if he should start putting all this stuff down. He also became aware that Aziraphale was studying his face with curiosity.

“Yes, alright.” Was there anything else he could say? “I’ll do that one. My treat.”

Go on, angel, beam your sun and moon on me. Don’t spare my feelings.

“Oh, really?” It was a damn good beaming.

Crowley was already walking away, timing it perfectly for the punchline.

“I still prefer the funny ones.”

Of course I do! They just make me laugh and don’t awaken the serpent of my imagination. Do you hear me, thou, serpent of the mind? Slither back to sleep _now_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Kippers.  
The Oyster woman in Neil Gaiman's scriptbook says "Kippers! Grapes! Oysters! Oranges!", while in the series no kippers were offered. And I just wondered...  
2\. Shakespeare.  
There are probably more references to Shakespeare than I am myself aware of. What can I say: the Bard doth make the serpent of my imagination stir. But the main sources are "Antony and Cleopatra", "Romeo and Juliet" and "Hamlet".


	2. London, 1601, September

May or September, London mud sticks to your boots just the same, thought Crowley approaching the Globe. _Hamlet_, once again. He knew it would be overcrowded this time: he made sure of it himself. He was fashionably late, though not very late: he wanted to see Aziraphale’s reaction in several parts of the play (and was apprehensive about one of them). The two sentinels were supposed to be talking about the Ghost at this moment – Crowley could time his own arrival in the audience with that of the Ghost on the stage. It was going to be tricky, in this crowd, but a demon will find his way in.

“Ah, Crowley!” beamed Aziraphale, as the demon finally materialised next to him in the pit. “Look at all these people! Wonderful! And the Ghost! They had been mostly talking about him when I saw _Hamlet_ first. Just one brief glimse of him, that was all. This is _so_ much better!”

“Thought as much,” Crowley said, nonchalance mode on. “Will is an obstinate fellow though, so it took some convincing to get the Ghost in more and give him a proper speech.”

“Will? I beg your pardon?”

Do I see a pout? A jealous one, perchance?

“Shakespeare, obviously. A bit slow today, are we? I basically rewrote his play for him”.

“You _what_?!”

Definitely jealous.

“You heard me. So just watch it and tell me what you think.”

Crowley exaggerated, of course, but who wouldn’t, after the whole summer of dramatising. He slithered his way into the Globe and into the troupe easily enough, and before long he was Shakespeare’s trusted advisor and benefactor. And yes, he became “Will” for him, although Crowley remained “my good sir”, which suited him fine.

As far as the play was concerned, there was certainly quite a bit of drama in Crowley’s conversations with Will, who would turn fiercely possessive when his words were under demonic scrutiny. But Crowley soon discovered a loophole (being a demon, he was good at this). The playwright was not so adamant about the _structure_ of the play: there were deep and cavernous insecurities there and the demon slid into those to build secret nests inside. Needless to say, changes in the structure and new twists that Crowley suggested came with new wordings which the demon was more at liberty to manipulate. The Ghost’s speech in the end of Act I, for instance, now had a _radiant angel_ in it. Crowley was quite proud of it.

Interestingly, Crowley himself didn’t get as possessive about the play the way Will did. Not about _Hamlet_ anyway. He had his own play to obsess about and he realised that the only way to get it out of his system was to commit it to paper. Yes, it was one hot drama of a summer.

He had been missing Aziraphale as his chief source of inspiration badly, but instead he discovered a thing or two about his imagination and the ways it worked. Aziraphale was a muse even in his absence. _Angels and ministers of grace defend us_… and inspire us.

The scene with the Ghost had ended by then and the Danish court had marched onto the stage with much pomp and flourish. As the King launched on his speech (a bit longwinded, but indispensable for the story, Crowley had to admit), he whispered to Aziraphale.

“How was Edinburgh?”

“Well, too many kippers around, for a start,” complained the angel with a grimace and the demon smirked. There was no one there to protect the poor angel from the horror of kippers, was there? “But, all in all, not too bad, as far as the work is concerned.”

“The blessing?”

“It went quite well actually. Very amenable to blessings, Scots.”

“And the tempting?”

“A piece of cake. I hardly had to do anything. And you should have seen the heather on those slopes in August!”

Time to throw in the Word.

“So, kippers and horse-riding aside, you had a moderately good time? All thanks to the Arrange…”

But Aziraphale frowned and then suddenly became serious. Morose even.

“They still burn witches in Scotland, did you know that?” he whispered sombrely. Crowley didn’t like that tone. “It turns out their King, James VI, is utterly obsessed with them. Wrote a book on witches. _Daemonologie _or something like that_._”

“Did you get your copy signed?”

“It’s not funny, Crowley!” Aziraphale said indignantly, but the demon persisted in taunting him. Come on, angel, you had the whole summer free of taunting, you can take it!

“He should have written a play. More popular these days. Reaches a wider audience.”

“Do be serious, Crowley!” Aziraphale hissed. Crowley didn’t like the hiss either. “They are _burning_ them, I tell you. And Good Queen Bess is not long for this world, as you well know. Who is to rule in England when she is gone? It will have to be King James! Unless you are going to miracle her a child and heir, that is.”

“Not my department, I am afraid,” Crowley said airily.

“And then, when King James reigns down here, they’ll burn witches all over the country, no doubt. And if they write plays about them, they will be shown as _evil_.”

“English witches aren’t that easy to burn, Aziraphale, so calm down.” Crowley said. He was growing tired with this serious conversation. “Good play material though, witches. Hmm, yes, I can see that. A Scottish play with witches on a heath. Sounds like something one can put a very good curse on.”

“You are a bit play-obsessed, aren’t you, Crowley?” said Aziraphale, suddenly calm and raising his eyebrows slightly. “You aren’t writing one of your own, by any chance?”

“What utter nonsense!” Crowley snarled. “Just watch the play, angel.”

Aziraphale gave him another quizzical look and turned his gaze back to the Danish court (which had already left the stage; leaving Hamlet to grieve that most wicked speed with which his mother married his uncle). Crowley observed with satisfaction that Burbage was in excellent form. The actor had been sober for days in end. He made sure of that, as well. The demon had never thought he would have to save someone from the vice of excessive drinking, but it was all worth it. Aziraphale was transfixed by the soliloquy and even forgot about his bunch of grapes for a while.

Whatever Crowley might have said earlier, Aziraphale was never slow. Gullible, possibly. Annoyingly moralising at times, definitely. Slow? Never. He seemed to remember the earlier version of _Hamlet_ perfectly and now he spotted every minor change and made a comment. Praise in most cases and sometimes very conspicuous absence of praise or any reaction whatsoever.

“Polonius is more of a bore now.” He would whisper approvingly. “Those parting counsels – that was a masterstroke!”

“They would go down in history as the epitome of sound fatherly advice, though.’ Crowley whispered back. “The irony of it.”

When the Ghost reappeared, the crowd shuddered in unison, and so did Aziraphale. Crowley breathed in this collective horror as if it were a jasmine scent. Get your dose of existential dread, brief mortals, he sang in his head. He watched the angel surreptitiously during the soliloquy and as the “so lust, though to a radiant angel link’d” line came up, he noticed, with satisfaction, that not a muscle moved in the angel’s face, not a wince. It was a very, very deliberate motionlessness.

There was quite a different reaction when Rosencrantz and Guildenstern appeared in Act II.

“Those are new!” exclaimed Aziraphale. “Who are these two?”

“Wait and see,” replied Crowley.

“Ah… sycophants,” Aziraphale said after a while. “Clever. And annoying.”

“Don’t worry. They are going to be dead soon enough,” Crowley reassured him and got a furious look. The angel hated spoilers.

“I wanted them to do more talking and toss a coin occasionally,” Crowley said in the tone of an artist talking to a connoisseur. “Which would always land heads up, you know. Very philosophical. But, obviously, Will was not ready for this.”

“Stop calling him _Will_”, Aziraphale hissed. Crowley enjoyed this hiss, for a change.

But then he realised that because of the distraction Aziraphale had missed another “angel” that Crowley had planted – in Hamlet’s speech addressed to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Damnation! That was good one.

So he refrained from comments throughout the rest of Act II, even while Aziraphale rhapsodised about the inclusion of actors. Yes, that _was_ a good move. A play in a play. Such possibilities! Admittedly, it was not a new idea: Will himself had done this before, but only in comedies. That _Pyramus and Thisbe_ thing in _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ was hilarious. But here, in _Hamlet_, it made all the difference to the plot. When Crowley had pointed it out to the playwright, not only did he agree, but expressed a wish to write a separate play, _The Trapping of the Mouse_, to elaborate on the idea. It took the demon quite long to persuade him to shorten the title down to _The Mousetrap_, at least in _Hamlet_.

During Act III the audience was spellbound by the “To be, or not to be” soliloquy, which Crowley personally thought could do with improvement, but the playwright had put his foot down. The demon didn’t mind much: Aziraphale had missed most of it the first time because they had been discussing Edinburgh, so he wouldn’t know the difference anyway. He just wanted to make sure Aziraphale would _not_ miss the angel in Act III.

The audience visibly tensed as Hamlet assaulted his mother trying to convince her not to sleep with Claudius. This scene was not hard to impress on Will. It worked. Here it came:

“That monster custom, who all sense doth eat,

Of habits devil, is angel yet in this,

That to the use of actions fair and good

He likewise gives a frock or livery

That aptly is put on.”

Crowley seriously doubted that many in the audience would be able to unravel this devilish metaphor quickly, but there was one among them who did not find it particularly complicated. Aziraphale gave him one more quizzical look. Crowley was getting used to those.

Act III ended at a good pace with Polonius dead and the audience enraptured and Aziraphale running out of grapes. Act IV was looming and Crowley felt a pang of apprehension once again. Stronger this time. Well, too late for second thoughts now. Enter King and Queen with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

“I thought you said they would be dead soon”, whispered Aziraphale.

“And so they will be,” Crowley snapped. “Wait and see.”

As the act progressed, Aziraphale approved of the inclusion of Fortinbars (more dramatic this way, Crowley) and of Hamlet’s ramifications on “the imminent death of twenty thousand men” (very deep, indeed, Crowley). And then it came, the moment of truth. Enter Ophelia, with her assortment of flowers. Aziraphale froze. Crowley took a deep breath.

“How could you?” Aziraphale whispered after watching Ophelia wallowing in her insanity for a while. He sounded like wet wings in the rain. “How could you do it to me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Witch-burning.  
Witches were not burnt in England at the time: they were hanged. So I was just trying to make history a bit more canon-consistent.  
2\. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern  
There is a reference to a more contemporary play here, of course. Why should only Shakespeare suffer?


	3. London, October 1601

The night was dark and dismal, as all nights so far in this beastly, lonely October. Crowley had spent all of them writing his play, never eating or drinking, never leaving his rooms. London mud could squelch without him for a while.

Another candle burnt all the way down. Crowley used candles not because he needed light, but because he needed shadows performing their dance macabre on the walls. The demon was in an ominous mood: had been in it for a month and wasn’t about to let it go.

After Aziraphale stormed out of the Globe on the night of _Hamlet_’s triumph, without even seeing Act V, Crowley pulled out all the stops. _I’ll send to darkness all that stop me._

He wasn’t sure whether he was doing it out of spite or out of guilt, but he had an iron-clad determination to finish what he had started. That would show him. The thought that he would hardly dare to actually _show him_ the play was sent to lurk quietly in the shadows for now. There were enough of those around.

Crowley had anticipated that the transformed Ophelia scene would hurt the angel, but he had underestimated the impact. Ophelia, as she had been initially written by Shakespeare, was accidentally killed by Hamlet, just as her father. Crowley added the insanity, the flowers, _the willow that grows askaunt the brook_. They were powerful stuff – he saw the audience entranced by the girls’ ravings – but for Aziraphale they were much more than that. They were memories and painful ones at that.

Thing is, sometimes women fell in love with Aziraphale. Not just women, of course, but mostly women, and as centuries rolled on, the angel worked out a way of dealing with it. Men and women fell in love with Crowley, too, mind you, loads of them, but the demon never gave it more than a passing thought: just broke their hearts and took off, throwing in a temptation or two for good measure. That is what you do when you are a demon. Not so, when you are an angel. Aziraphale took the whole thing very seriously and _dealt_ with it.

Obviously, breaking their hearts and leaving them to suffer was not an option for Aziraphale, although Crowley had pointed out to him, several times, that suffering was a way of perfecting the soul, and wasn’t that exactly what the angel was supposed to do? But the stupid creature just wasn’t keen on causing suffering, when he could avoid it, and he took it very personally when he was the reason.

Aziraphale tried various ways of dealing with love-sick damsels: Crowley had to admit that the angel was a bit of an experimenter. He tried killing love by finding someone else for the “patient” to fall in love with; he arranged advantageous marriages (Crowley found that Aziraphale the matchmaker was hilarious); sometimes he destroyed the good image of himself (this was when he often resorted to Crowley’s professional help); he found other occupations for the patients to get obsessed with (a bit tricky for women in societies where their occupational possibilities were severely limited, so Aziraphale had been secretly working on an emancipation project as well). When all else failed, he gave in and took off, spending years afterwards wallowing in his misery of guilt and self-loathing.

He had quite an extensive arsenal of love-killing tools developed by the time the Romans appeared on the stage that was the world. During that memorable night before Caligula’s assassination, when Crowley was tempted to try oysters cooked by a saucy young man called Petronius, Aziraphale got quite drunk and spilled a lot of beans, including the love-killing business. Only the angel never referred to it as “love-killing” – oh no, not him! He styled it as “the cure for love” and confided to Crowley that Ovid’s poem “Remedia Amoris” (Love’s Remedy) had been written under the angel’s direct influence. He boasted that he hardly ever needed to practise the art anymore because he had learned to see the spark of love so early on that was able to nip it in the bud. Never a prosaic creature, Aziraphale.

“I can stop their feet before they actually cross the threshold, Crowley,” Aziraphale was bragging, swinging his wine in an elegant arch and generously quoting Ovid between gulps. “Once it gets started, it will only become worse: for time gives strength, time ripens tender grapes of love.”

So no wonder Aziraphale had been feeling smug for centuries and centuries, having avoided being loved on numerous occasions. He had successfully prevented the whole army of damsels from getting into distress of crossing that dangerous threshold.

But people are naturally good at getting into distress. From time to time a human would appear that could outsmart both the angel and the demon. Crowley was actually better at spotting these and dodging them, but the angel got trapped one day. One April day in Italy in the 15th century.

Her name was Simonetta. La bella Simonetta, as she was known in Florence. And she was indeed bella, as was Florence, as was Italy in 1469, unlike England, where the 15th century was not much better than the horrible 14th. Both Crowley and Aziraphale were in Florence at the time: the demon had been assigned to work on the Medici brothers, while Aziraphale was probably there for the Renaissance art. Simonetta was young and frivolous and as Florentine as she could be: singing and dancing and posing for aspiring artists. All artists in Florence were aspiring, and one of them was young Sandro Botticelli.

Aziraphale felt perfectly safe from Simonetta – and why shouldn’t he have been, when she actually first laid eyes on the angel on her wedding day? She was sixteen and passionately loved by her flamboyant groom, Marco Vespucci, and the whole bunch of Florentine nobles was there to witness the event. It was a pompous affair with much wine and music at a luxurious villa drenched in Italian languidness. Crowley wasn’t there personally, but he could easily imagine what Aziraphale was doing – talking about art here, arguing about music there, bestowing a quick blessing on the couple before skulking off to sample the wine and refreshments in some flower-covered bower.

Why did Simonetta single him out? That was harder to Crowley to construe. Was the blessing perhaps too quick or casual and she felt a prickle of curiosity and decided to investigate who this mysterious guest was? Or was he the only one _not_ praising her youth and beauty? Or was she bored with her new husband already? She passed the threshold, this way or another, and the tender grapes quickly ripened in Italian mellow sunset. Somehow Aziraphale missed the crucial moment.

When he caught on, it was too late. Simonetta was love-struck and insistent, so Aziraphale was forced to unpack his old _Remedia Amoris_ toolbox covered by the centuries of dust. She was a married woman, so an advantageous marriage was off the table. The whole “find someone else” strategy presented a moral dilemma for the angel, obviously. Marco, a cousin to the famous explorer Amerigo Vespucci, was a bit of an explorer himself, only in a different sense, but that did not make it right for Aziraphale to push Simonetta onto the bed of sin. He summoned Crowley to have his reputation blackened, though they had to be discreet about it: Aziraphale wasn’t quite done with Florence and didn’t wish to leave it soon. Crowley did his part as best he could, but it only made Aziraphale all the more interesting in Simonetta’s eyes.

“This is idleness for you, Crowley”, complained Aziraphale in a private conversation with Crowley, rich Tuscan wine splashing in his goblet.

Here we go, thought Crowley, more Ovid is coming.

“If you take away idleness, my friend, as you should, that would surely break Cupid’s bow and make his torch go dark.”

“So it is a bow or a torch? Or has he got both?” Crowley would taunt the angel, but of no avail.

“As plane trees like wine, as poplar trees like water…”

“You mean, as _angels_ like wine?”

“…as muddy reeds like the marshy ground, Crowley, so Venus loves idleness: you who seek to end love…”

“I do not, actually.”

“…must know that love gives way to business.”

“Does it? What kind of business? I’m taking notes.”

“Any kind, really. Be busy, Crowley, and you’ll be safe.”

“Thanks for the tip, angel. I’ll bear it in mind.”

There was no business for Simonetta though, no new worlds to explore, unlike her cousin-in-law, no escape from idleness. Florence and idleness were all she had. So desperately Aziraphale pushed her in the only sphere open for the young Florentine bella. He turned her into a Muse.

Aspiring artists all wanted to draw Simonetta, of course: one didn’t need angelic interference for that. But Aziraphale intensified their inspiration and channelled it into the Renaissance ideals. Sandro Botticelli looked at Simonetta and saw goddesses. Other artists followed suit. Portrait after portrait appeared. Idleness-loving Venus herself was born out of waves. Simonetta basked in her Renaissance glory. And, in spite of all that, she still loved Aziraphale, growing more desperate with each day.

Crowley decided he would help a bit then: after all, _he_ didn’t have any moral dilemmas when it came to tempting a man to fall in love with a married woman. The Medici brothers, Lorenzo and Giuliano, were ludicrously easy to manipulate. Before long they were both in love with her. Crowley had high hopes of either of them succeeding in winning her favours: they were both ruthless and prepared to get what they wanted. Unlike aspiring artists, who tended to aspire silently in dark corners creating masterpieces and never daring to approach the object of their artistic passions.

Then came the grand tournament of 1475. The days of chivalry were already becoming history, but Piazza Santa Croce was filled with knights and banners, damsels waving and minstrels strumming their lutes. The damsels started waving particularly enthusiastically as Giuliano de’ Medici rode into the Piazza on his horse. The handsome Giuliano, the Giuliano of raven locks, Giuliano the golden boy of Florence, bearing a banner upon which there was a face of a goddess. Crowley recognised Botticelli’s hand: his Pallas Athene was resplendent in her helmet. But helmet or not, he also recognised Simonetta. So did the whole Piazza. And everyone read the words on the banner: “La Sans Pareille”. The Unparalleled One.

With a little demonic intervention (unless it was angelic help, of course) Giuliano won the tournament and named Simonetta “The Queen of Beauty”. Crowley should have been proud, but the look on the girl’s face, as the garland of flowers was reverently placed on her exquisite head, was that of a lunatic. Her frantic eyes searched the crowd and never once rested on Giuliano. Crowley cursed inwardly. If Aziraphale had any sense in him, he would just make a run for it, there and then.

Of course, the angle stayed on in Florence. Simonetta’s collapse into madness was swift and painful for those around her. She would run away from the house and wander around the city, wearing flower wreathes and singing sorrowful ditties. The Queen of Beauty was pining away because of unrequited love.

Florence didn’t want to let go of her bella, and Aziraphale didn’t want to admit defeat. The family did all they could to restrain her and conceal her condition from the rest of the city, but Simonetta didn’t make that task easy. Aziraphale accused Crowley of interference, since on one memorable occasion the poor girl burst into Botticelli’s studio, when the angel was there discussing art. Simonetta was dressed as Cleopatra (or rather _undressed_ as Cleopatra) with a snake around her neck threatening to get poisoned in front of them both, if Aziraphale didn’t return her love. It took Crowley a long time to persuade Aziraphale he had had nothing to do with this. But he still liked the painting Botticelli did of “Cleopatra” some time later.

In a year after the tournament Simonetta escaped once again and got drowned in the brook, which might have been an accident or a suicide. Her family managed to pass her death off as the result of an illness. In the times of plague and consumption people were easily convinced. She was only 22, and she was as bella in death as she was in life, so her body was carried around Florence in a coffin for everyone to have their last look at Simonetta Vespucci. Botticelli sobbed and so did Aziraphale, and Crowley was annoyed and relieved at the same time. The angel soon left Italy, while Crowley stayed on. More than half a century passed before they met again. They never mentioned Simonetta or Florence or _Remedia Amoris_ after that.

***

Crowley had been staring at the shadows for quite a while. The quill was lying on the table, and a huge ink stain was sprawling on the last page of his play. The stain was vaguely pear-shaped. Unable to refrain from this any longer, Crowley returned to the memory of that day in the Globe.

“How could you do it to me?” the angel asked quietly.

“Well, you wanted the play to work, didn’t you?”

“Couldn’t you just?..” Aziraphale mumbled, still pale and shocked.

“You know very well I couldn’t!” Crowley hissed. “What is it, conjuring a coin out of thin air? Mending a hole in the wall? There were bloody big holes in the play, if you ask me, and it took me the whole summer to mend them. If anything is a miracle, _that_ was.”

“Of all the possible ways you could have employed to mend this hole, you chose… this?” The colour slowly returned to the angel’s cheeks. “And you dare to call it a _miracle_?”

“I thought you got over it!” Crowley was beginning to panic. “It happened more than century ago.”

“Listen to yourself! She _died_ because of me. How can I _ever_ get over it?”

“It was not your fault, Aziraphale!” groaned Crowley but the angel wasn’t listening.

“I thought we were friends,” he said, with a dark cloud in his voice. Crowley didn’t even know the angel could do the opposite of beaming.

“You said to Will and Burbage you didn’t even know me”, the demon reminded him bitterly and regretted it immediately.

“Perhaps, it was true. I _don’t_ know you,” Aziraphale said with equal bitterness and turned to go. Then stopped and added, “My regards to… Will.”

And then he walked out on him and on _Hamlet_ and out of the Globe and into the night, which was definitely going to be dismal and dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Ovid's “Remedia Amoris”  
It actually works. Try following Ovid's tips next time you want to get over someone and move on.
> 
> 2\. Simonetta  
I've included her story more or less unchanged, with the additions necessary for this text. She was the inspiration for the famous "Birth of Venus", and she looks quite nice with a snake in this portrait: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portrait_of_Simonetta_Vespucci


	4. London, December 1606

A fine coating of snow covered the everlasting mud of London, but it squelched under Crowley’s boots nonetheless. He was headed to the Cheshire Cheese tavern where the troupe was carousing tonight, celebrating Christmas and the opening of yet another tragedy. These past five years were rich in tragedies, in the Globe and in the world at large. Queen Elizabeth died and, just as Aziraphale predicted, King James of Scotland mounted the throne of England, bringing the fear of witchcraft with him. The plague swept over London, the king fought with the Parliament, the king enemies were out to get him. The Gunpowder plot a year ago was spectacular, Crowley thought, although he was glad he was not personally involved (some other demons were responsible and got their punishment for the failure). Crowley wondered how much longer he could indulge in his theatrical endeavours ignoring the work of Hell.

The tragedies he had helped Shakespeare create were true masterpieces. It would probably take mortals quite a while to figure out that _Timon of Athens_ and _Troilus and Cressida_ were great, but nobody had any doubts about the other three. _Othello_, _King Lear_ and now, finally finished, polished and staged, _Macbeth_. Will wrote all those and Will alone was responsible for all the obsequious sucking up to King James but Crowley had his say about practically everything that was worth anything. Three witches on a heath in Scotland were his. Aziraphale would have liked that. If he saw it… Crowley paused on the threshold of The Cheshire Cheese fighting off the dark and dismal mood. The angel had never been to the Globe again since that night. Well, to hell with him. Crowley stepped in and dove into the happy cheers of the troupe.

And then he saw him. Rather smelled him first, the smell of a morning by the sea, then heard the rustle of lace as a note of gentle discord in the din of the tavern. Rather a rustle of wet wings getting dry near the open fire. He was indeed sitting close to the hearth, alone at the table, with a tankard of ale in front of him. Only five years, the demon gloated inwardly, not half a century this time. And he immediately felt shame and contrition after that. He knew he owed an apology. He had one ready. He had had it ready for five long years.

“Cheers, Will, Richard, Henry, Alexander, John… No, sorry, I’ll join you by and by. I’ve got an… acquaintance here. Won’t be long, my good men, won’t be long at all.”

He waved off their objections, shouted for some ale and sauntered towards the table near the fire as nonchalantly as he could.

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot…” started Crowley and was cut off by Aziraphale’s gaze. All right, wrong tone. Let’s start again.

“Mind if I join you, or would you rather be left alone?”

“Sit down, Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly. “You know I am here to talk to you.”

Crowley obediently sank to the chair and looked at the angel. Their eyes met and locked. It was as if he didn’t even have black glasses on when this impossible angel was looking at him. How did he do it? Well, let’s get it over with as soon as possible.

“Aziraphale, I am sorry for what I did…”

“Crowley, I am sorry for what I said…”

They both stopped. Crowley’s ale arrived but he didn’t touch it. He started again

“Aziraphale…”

“Crowley…”

“All right, angel, you first.”

“No, you first, please.”

Crowley made a gulp of ale. His head suddenly was spinning and words started spilling out.

“I am so sorry, Aziraphale… I shouldn’t have done it, or perhaps I should’ve asked you first, or at least warned you, or I don’t know what… It’s just, you know, you wanted that miracle and I wanted to give it to you, but… but…thing is… for people to love a play is the same as to love a person… or, or… stopping to love… you just don’t click your demonic fingers or flap your angelic wings. No miracles work here.”

“Crowley, I know,” Aziraphale said compassionately, invisible wings trembling.

“No, listen. It had to be done the hard way. It’s not like sending kippers away or… making your lace immaculate white. Nice lace, by the way.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Crowley had to pause at that and make another gulp of ale. He knew his nonchalance was completely gone, but at least he had his back to the troupe and they wouldn’t see his unravelling. He could feel their curious glances. They would just have to wait.

“So I did what I did and I added what felt real and poignant, at least I knew it would be for others… and for you… The insanity that reigns when your mind can no longer grapple with the world as it is, but there’s no going back over that threshold.”

“Crowley, I know.”

“But you must have been shocked and hurt.”

“I felt exposed.”

“Yes, exposed, although that was _nonsense_, because no one could possibly know: the whole thing had happened before anyone in the audience was even born… and, anyway, it was not Simonetta’s story, it was just a memory of it, a flavour, if you will…”

“I know.”

“But you were hurt anyway, and you stopped coming to the theatre and I was angry and stubborn… and wanted to prove… to you… Heaven knows what and all those tragedies I helped Will make…”

“I am sorry I have missed them. I heard a lot about them. You and Will and all the good fellows in the troupe must be a great team.”

“It’s my fault you missed them. I want you to know I didn’t put anything personal into any them, not one bit! So you’re safe, if you want to come and see… If my presence is a problem, I won’t be there – just say a word. And I will burn the play I wrote, so that…”

“What?”

“Oh…”

Burbage, who was pretty drunk by then, came up to them and asked to be introduced to Crowley’s friend and insisted they all would join the troupe, and Crowley eventually grew so impatient with him that he secretly made the Cheshire Cheese run out of ale. Eventually the troupe noisily and merrily went off to the Anchor, singing and falling over and forgetting about Crowley and Aziraphale entirely.

“What was that, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked softly. “You wrote a play of your own?”

“No, no, no, angel, _you_ wanted to say something first. Forget anything I said. It’s your turn to talk.”

Crowley was desperately thinking how to slither out of this one. The quizzical look in Aziraphale’s eyes was back, and it felt like it was going to stay there for a while.

“Well, I wanted to say I was sorry for my outburst. I’ve been thinking about it… all this time. I’ve come to the same conclusion as you, more or less. To move the audience you have to be moved yourself. Whatever you have lived though, whatever has moved _you_, you have the right to use. And yes, it’s not as if you’ve used names or pointed fingers. My reaction was… a bit over the top.”

“It was quite natural, though. I should have…”

“No you shouldn’t have. It would’ve spoilt it, wouldn’t it? You did no wrong, Crowley. It took me long to realise, but I finally did.”

The rustle of lace, the song of the fire in the hearth, the shadows, the silence. Time to slither out, Crowley.

“So, about this play you wrote”, said the angel, looking of epitome of quizzicality.

Too late now. Too late.

“You don’t want to know. It’s nothing. I’ll just burn it. It’s stupid.”

“Crowley, just tell me.”

“Trust me, there’s nothing to tell.”

“Trust you, demon?” Aziraphale smiled, wings whispering. “I’ll think about it. Meanwhile, why don’t you get yourself more ale and tell me all about this play of yours?”

Crowley sighed and did as he was told.

“Well”, he began, after a big gulp of ale, trying for nonchalance once again. “There’s these two… fellows.”

“Fellows? Are they friends?”

“Well, more along the lines of bitter enemies, really… but yes, one could call them friends. One could even call them lovers. Star-crossed, of course.”

“Oh.”

“They are…” Crowley took a deep breath, then changed his mind, exhaled and took a big sip of ale instead. “…a demon and an angel.”

“Are they? How nice! What are their names?”

Bloody hellhounds! Since he was never going to show the play to anyone after the Ophelia moment, he never bothered to think of some imaginative names for his Black one and White One: the manuscript just had Crowley and Aziraphale. He desperately thought of suitable names… Of any names, really.

“Well, one is called…eh… Antony!”

Antony? Where did that come from?

“Antony?” the angel echoed his thoughts. “That’s a nice name. Is it the angel’s or the demon’s?”

“Er… the demon’s,” said Crowley quickly.

“And the angel is…?”

Young Samuel Gilbourne, one of the actors who had recently joined the company, stepped into the Cheshire Cheese at that moment. He was a slim youth, perfect for female roles, although it would be a while before someone like Lady Macbeth could be entrusted to him. Meanwhile, he was doing the third witch in Macbeth and was fairly good at screeching.

“Master Crowley,” Samuel cried. “Where is everyone?”

“Went down to the Anchor, my boy. Hurry up before they empty the barrels over there as well.”

Gilbourne promptly followed the advice and Crowley smiled to himself. Saved in the last minute by a tardy actor.

“Samuel. The angel’s name is Samuel.”

“How charming!” beamed Aziraphale. “So… what happens to Antony and Samuel?”

Crowley almost asked him who Antony was, but stopped in time.

“Not very nice things, I am afraid. There’s this war and they have to fight on opposite sides, but they both desert because they refuse to fight against each other and in the end… well, in the end it’s all a bit of a mess.”

“It is a tragedy then?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s called…?”

“_Wicked Omens_”

“Will you read it for me, Crowley?”

Fire crackling, wind picking up outside, wings rustling and straining to spread against the rising gale.

“Please?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Actors  
Apart from Richard Burbage, these are some of the actors from Shakespeare's company (The King's Men): Henry Condell, Alexander Cooke, John Heminges. Samuel Gilburne was also an actor, but little is known about him.


	5. London, May 1607

There’s nothing like darling buds of May pressed into London mud by a leather boot. There was spring in the air and there was a spring to Crowley’s step as he approached the Anchor, where Will was waiting for him. The serpent of demonic imagination, promoted by now to stage manager, uncoiled in anticipation. They were going to talk casting and acting, blocking and lighting, costumes and music. His play was going to be staged! Crowley practically flew into the tavern. Will was there and he broke into a wide grin when he saw the demon.

“Master Crowley! I trust you fare well?”

“Never better, Master Shakespeare,” Crowley said impatiently and the small talk was over. “So, what did you think of the play?”

“Excellent stuff, excellent! So rich in imagery, so clear in purpose. Only needed a few adjustments – minor ones, I assure you, my good sir!”

Come to think of it, this wide grin looked a bit strained, the stage-manager serpent hissed inside Crowley’s head. Clownish. Fake. What did he change exactly?

“What did you change in _Wicked Omens_, Will?”

“Ah, well, _Wicked Omens_ is a great title, beyond doubt, has this ominous slant to it, but…”

He changed the title, then. Since Crowley had done this to Will’s plays himself before (_Three Sisters_, really? Let’s call _it King Lear_ – for all intents and purposes, it is about the old bugger, innit?), he wasn’t going to strangle the playwright just yet. Let’s hear him out first.

“…but forsooth, why not _names_? I am a great believer in names. Nomen est omen, didn’t the Romans say so?”

“They did,” Crowley said with poison in his voice. “And we already have _omens_. _Wicked_ ones.”

“And how wonderfully wicked and poetic they all are! They are all in there, just as you wrote them.” The playwright grin was getting on Crowley’s nerves. “But our heroes’ names sound much better in the title. They have such a ring to them.”

“What, Antony and Samuel have a ring to them?” Crowley said in disbelief.

He regretted “Samuel” by now. He came up with much better variants later.

“Well, not Antony and Samuel, I mean, not _Samuel_.” Will’s grin became almost unbearable as he said that. “I have a much better name – I hope you are going to like it.”

Now… that was interesting. But Crowley was open to suggestions. Even “William” had more ring to it than Samuel, but he doubted the playwright would pick his own name for an angel. Even he wasn’t that conceited.

“So, what is this much better name?”

A pause, a swish of a hand, as if the playwright were on the stage, a bow.

“Gentles, let me invite you all to the first night of our brand new play, the great and lamentable tragedy of Antony and… Cleopatra.”

Satan save me, I am going to kill him after all.

***

They went to Crowley’s rooms above the inn on that crisp December night, the angel and the demon. After leaving the Cheshire Cheese, Crowley sobered up on the way, then he changed his mind about it and acquired some wine to get drunk again. Aziraphale declined the wine, though. He said he would get intoxicated by Crowley’s play.

Crowley lit dozens of candles: he needed even more shadows dancing around and sending wyrd phantoms across the walls of his room. Aziraphale got down on the couch, that low oriental thing Crowley had bought from a Venetian merchant once, and conjured up some cushions to make him comfortable. Crowley got into the throne-like armchair and stretched his long legs to rest on the window sill. This way he was half-turned away from the angel.

“Wouldn’t you get a bit chilly like that, dear?” Aziraphale asked softly, as a feather touching a silken cloth. He then conjured up a small stool for Crowley’s feet. The way he placed it on the floor made Crowley turn and face the angel. He didn’t try to shift his position again. He summoned the play from the table by clicking his fingers. Aziraphale smiled in anticipation. He managed to look both radiant and cuddly, and all of the light produced by the candles seemed to gravitate towards him like love-stricken moths. It took Crowley a while to focus on the page and start reading.

“_Wicked Omens_. Act I. Enter Az… Antony and Samuel”

One more sneaky miracle and all aziraphales and crowleys in the text metamorphosed into samuels and antonies.

“You wouldn’t have any grapes, would you?” the angel said with a fake pout. Devil snare, you are trying to put me at ease, you radiant fool. I _am_ at ease. This is _my play_. Just _listen_.

Crowley had heard stories that the actors of the troupe told about the stage nightmares many of them had. In their dreams they had to perform the play hadn’t rehearsed even once; their roles were changed in the last minutes; they had to speak in languages they didn’t know and, to crown it all, there was Queen Elizabeth in the audience. Or the Pope. Or, the nightmare of nightmares, the Spanish Inquisition. Not infrequently they were stark naked on the stage, facing the full house. These were the worst nightmares, apparently. Richard and John and Henry talked about them in whispers and then crossed themselves. Obviously, those were devil-sent dreams (although Crowley had nothing to do with them, honest!).

Well, it felt a bit like that, reading his play to Aziraphale. He was fully clothed, of course, besides, they both even had tartan plaids by now (will you stop conjuring things up, angel?), but as he started reading his written words, he felt naked – more than naked – transparent and exposed, as if his mind were a text and the angel was absorbing it, word by word, line by line. And his heart, such as it was in this corporation, every single beat of it, was on the outside, also naked, also clearly visible, on his raven-black sleeve.

But one thing was different from the actors’ dreams. It _wasn’t_ a nightmare. Oh no! It was beautiful. Crowley loved it – every iambic second of it. This is probably how Simonetta felt, as she undressed in Botticelli’s studio. Or rather Botticelli himself, as he looked at the finished portrait. Or rather as he was watching Simonetta looking at the finished portrait. Was it like this for Romeo when he was gazing at Juliet on the balcony talking of her love for him? _Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?_ No, the other way round. This is how Juliet must have felt when she was pouring her heart out on the balcony and then suddenly – lo, Romeo was there! Or had she known all along he was there? She must have known. When you’re star-crossed, you know these things…

Crowley read Act I, in which the demon and the angel shared an ecstasy of a beginning – when all was newly made and fresh and every raindrop was a revelation. _Eternity was in our lips and eyes_. It started snowing behind the window as he was reading – he wasn’t sure whether he smelled it or Aziraphale told him about it when Crowley paused for a sip of wine.

Crowley read Act II, in which the demon and the angel got separated and went each on his own mission, their minds and hearts still very full of each other. When the angel Az… Samuel (yes, the text had been changed but Crowley’s tongue still tried to speak a more familiar name) reminisced of his demon to an old shepherdess on a hillside, praising his “infinite variety”, Crowley sneaked a glance at Aziraphale.

“Suits you much better than Burbage, dear,” said the angel with the halo of candle light around his head. “I mean… suits _Antony_ much better, of course. Do keep reading.”

Crowley read Act III, in which a great war broke out. It threatened to wipe out whole countries and even continents. There were a lot of wicked omens that prophesied woe and destruction. The angel and the demon, both prominent in their respective armies, got entangled into the devilish web of intrigue and ambition. Each was offered a reward for betraying the other. Each refused. The wind howled outside and Aziraphale finally asked for some wine as well. “Do you mind if I add just a touch of honey and spices into it, dear? And warm it up a bit?”

Crowley read Act IV, in which the angel and the demon got disillusioned each in their respective side, as well as in the war, in the corrupted way of the world and in wicked paperwork that accompanied it. They both left their armies and reunited in their own personal Eden, for as long as the cruel times let them. The snow was falling in large flakes by now, and the silence sang and the candlelight floated around on a thousand of tiny wings.

Crowley didn’t read Act V, because Aziraphale suddenly rose and came close to him. He reached out his hand and adjusted the plaid that had slipped from Crowley’s shoulder. Then he gently took the pages from him. “Not just yet, Crowley, please. Let us… stay in this moment for a while.”

Before it all goes pear-shaped, Crowley added in his head.

So they stayed in the moment: the wine, the plaid, the light. Crowley wasn’t sure how much time passed.

“May I read Act V myself, dear?”

“Am I going too fast for you, angel?”

“No, no, you read beautifully and at a very pleasing pace,” Aziraphale said earnestly. “It’s just… You have me completely enchanted. I need… I would really appreciate…”

“You want some sense of control, don’t you?”

“Oh Crowley, you are a wily demon.”

“Sorry about that.” Crowley sighed. “Read, angel, if that’s what you want. Do not let me enchant you. Much.”

Aziraphale read Act V, in which the demon and the angel were put on trial as traitors, found guilty and executed. There was silence: no more snow or wind outside and almost dark inside as the candles burned down one by one. Aziraphale’s voice rose and fell as he slowly negotiated the turbulent river of the lines, gradually gaining confidence and passion. Crowley didn’t realise he could feel even more naked, even more exposed and open than before. Crowley didn’t know what transfixed him more: Aziraphale voicing the angel’s speeches or the demon’s. And damn fine speeches they were, especially the final ones_. I’ll spend that moment before I perish thinking of him who is my heaven_. Crowley became aware he had been crying.

Aziraphale was there beside him once again, reaching out again, this time making contact. He held Crowley’s hand. There was hardly any candlelight left, but the angel was radiant anyway. _He would teach the torches to burn bright, my angel_.

“Are you having a moment, dear?”

“Yes, a damnable catharsis is what I am having.”

I am not going to sob. Not going to happen.

“Buck up, Crowley!” Aziraphale said then with sudden vehemence, squeezing his hand. “You don’t like gloomy ones and yet you wrote the gloomiest of them all. A demon of infinite variety, so courageous and yet and vulnerable, called Antony, utterly destroyed by Holy Water?”

“Well, he had it coming.”

“And that remarkable angel…”

“Samuel…”

“Samuel, yes. He is so…” Azipraphale struggled for a moment and failed to find other words for the angel, apart from “remarkable”. Crowley smiled through his tears. “Well, nevermind that. That angel, called Samuel, meaning so well and – burned to ashes in hellfire? Couldn’t you have saved them?”

“How?” Crowley cried out. “Heaven and Hell are not going anywhere, are they? It’s just the truth of it, plain and simple, as you well know. In a situation like that… they _must_ die.”

“Oh, I don’t know…” the angel sounded thoughtful. “There might be a way.”

Silence fell again. Aziraphale gently released Crowley’s hand and returned to the couch.

“_Wicked Omens_, hmm. I wish you would change that, Crowley. Make them _Wonderful Omens_. Or _Brilliant_. Find a place for hope. It’s Christmas, after all.”

Crowley was just looking at the angel in disbelief. What hope? Where?

“Oh, and give it to Shakespeare and his good men to stage.”

“Will… I mean Shakespeare listens to me, surely, but an entire play, not written by him? I don’t know about that. Might be too much for him.”

“Well, allow him to make some changes. I expect he will, anyway.”

“If that’s what you want…”

“It is, dear.” Aziraphale breathed out and got up. “I’d better be going.”

Crowley’s mind went numb at that and he wished he had written five more acts. He stretched desperately for the last straw of nonchalance, but there was none.

“And I’ll see you at the Globe again?” was all he could say.

Aziraphale paused on the threshold.

“What’s on this week?”

“Macbeth.”

“Ah, the Scottish one. Will I enjoy it?”

“You’ll probably hate it and leave before Act V.”

“Sounds good to me,” Aziraphale said with nod. “I’ll be there.”

“Grapes on the house, angel.”

“Temptation accomplished.”

They both smiled now, and then with a _thank you, Crowley_ as soft as a touch of a snowflake and the angel finally left the room. As Crowley sat there in silence and darkness, he thought about wings and grapes and brilliant omens and wondered what they might portend. He was still feeling naked and happy and utterly absurd and yet, damn it all, what if the omens were indeed not that wicked? _There’s hope in it yet._

***

Crowley surfaced from his reverie to find that he was in the Anchor and Shakespeare was still talking. He tried to focus on his words – he lost it for a bit after he heard the name “Cleopatra”. What was it? Will had been saying that the name “Antony” reminded him of the success he had in the previous century with the Roman play, _Julius Caesar_. There was Mark Antony there, of course, with his absolute gem of a speech “But Brutus says he was ambitious; and Brutus is an honourable man”. Why not make this good man Antony our tragic hero? And wasn’t he and Cleopatra the most famous star-crossed lovers in history? Crowley managed to tune in at last.

“Surely you understand, good sir Crowley, that to have two _male_ lovers on the stage is absolutely out of the question? Remember what happened when I tried so much as hint at warmth between Will Scarlet and Friar Tuck in my _Comedy of Robin Hood_? The play was banned! But probably you don’t remember it, sir, since it was before the Globe times.”

Crowley just shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t trust himself to speak.

“I mean… do not take offence, good sir, because, I do respect your taste and opinion,” Will went on ardently, “but who would want a play about _demons and angels_? Great tragedies should be about _us_, poor mortals, with our passions and our follies. And whose story is greater than that of Antony and Cleopatra? Angels and demons are but symbols: be they elements or mere vessels for our vices and virtues. Nay, they are _metaphors_ that carry subtle messages, for those who can see. I’ve kept angels and demons in your play as just such messengers – would you lend me your ear…”

Crowley wished he had been deaf, but he had to hear this out:

“Therefore, O Antony, stay not by his side:

Thy demon, that’s thy spirit which keeps thee, is

Noble, courageous high, unmatchable,

Where Caesar’s is not; but, near him, thy angel

Becomes a fear, as being o’erpower’d: therefore

Make space enough between you.”

The playwright almost moved himself to tears by this recital. Well, at least his grin was gone. Will finished with a bow and looked as though he was waiting for applause. Crowley still had nothing to offer him.

“I’ve kept your serpents, of course: they work well with Cleopatra and many of your fine speeches. And the drinking scene! Your angel and demon are quite fond of drinking – it was such a shame to lose that, so now it’s Antony and Caesar and Lepidus – drinking merrily and making fools of themselves. Just as in your play!”

“This is not _my _play anymore,” Crowley said at last and got up.

“Master Crowley, wait – I’ve kept the omens – the soothsayers, the swallows, the moon, the underground music – that was _so_ good… please don’t go – I insist on having your opinion about the costumes and…”

“From now on, Master Shakespeare, you’re on your own,” snapped the demon.

And in a second he was gone.


	6. London, 1613, June

As Crowley approached the Globe… well, the place where the Globe had been until very recently, it was not mud under his black boots. It was ash, still smouldering. It felt _good_. As he was looking down, another pair of boots appeared next to his. Shoes rather than boots. White ones, with silver buckles.

“I thought you would be here,” said Aziraphale, while Crowley was still watching his feet. “This is so sad. So very sad.”

“Yes, _tragic_,” Crowley agreed, smirking. He looked up and met Aziraphale’s eyes. The angel’s sadness was genuine, though, so Crowley coughed and hid his smugness.

“Speaking of tragedies, have you heard about the Pendle witches?” Aziraphale asked.

“I have indeed,” said Crowley. “And yes, I admit, you were right about King James. You can gloat now.”

As if the angel knew how.

“At least they didn’t burn them,” said the angel with a sigh, ignoring the taunting and toeing the ashes with his dainty shoe tip. “But the mob went mad and some were shouting that weird sisters deserved to burn.”

Here we go. No rest for the good.

“I wonder…” Aziraphale began and stopped.

“Out with it, angel!”

“I wonder if your play hasn’t played its part in all this.”

“You mean _Macbeth_?” Crowley said the name emphatically and was rewarded with seeing the angel wince. “Not my play.”

“Don’t say that name, Crowley, the play is cursed!”

That pout, those pauses. I _missed_ that.

“You mustn’t say “Macbeth” in a _theatre_, angel. There is no theatre, look! It’s all burned down!”

“One never knows with curses: perchance it will work in mysterious ways.”

“Like what?”

Aziraphale thought for a moment.

“Like something you hold dear will burn down one day,” there was such sadness in his voice that Crowley gave in.

“Come on, angel, buck up! They still have the other theatre, the Blackfriars. And they will rebuild the Globe, if that’s what making you sad. And, if necessary, they will rebuild it again and again. And so will you – whatever it is that will burn down that you hold dear, will come back to you as good as new. The show will go on. A word of a demon.”

“What _I_ hold dear? _You_ said Mac… well, you know who. The curse should fall on _you_.”

Who is taunting who now?

“I said the name twice, didn’t I? I like sharing things with my angel.”

“Not your angel, Crowley!”

Pout, sweet pout.

“You forgot to add “foul fiend,” the demon smirked.

There was a long silence after that.

“You are not that, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly.

“Oh but I _am,_” Crowley said and before the angel could protest, he added: “Why do you think the Globe burned down?”

Aziraphale stared at him in horror.

“_You_ did it?”

“No, no, no, it was an accident – the cannon went off during the performance of Will’s latest, _Henry VIII_. But I _did _put a curse on the Globe. Hoist with their own petard, eh? Literally.”

Aziraphale kept staring.

“Well, not only witches can play at that game,” Crowley said smugly.

Aziraphale looked even sadder than before.

“Crowley, you cursed the Globe because of _Antony and_…”

“Don’t say it!” Crowley snarled. “I don’t want to hear that title again, ever!”

“He didn’t leave much of your play in it, didn’t he?”

“Angel_, stop_.”

“He burned something you held dear, didn’t he?”

That look, those sounds of wet wings…

“Whatever you say, angel. Let’s say I just had to stand on the ashes of a theatre. I needed that.”

“Do you feel better now?”

“It’s not a catharsis. But it will do.”

A gust of wind lifted a pile of ash, swirling and scattering it around. Aziraphale delicately warded it off so that it wouldn’t touch his white garments. And then he completely took Crowley by surprise by reciting the lines of the Black one:

“He makes me angry and he drives me mad

And at this time most easy ‘tis to do’t,

When my good stars, that were my former guides,

Have empty left their orbs, and shot their fires

Into the abysm of hell.”

Crowley felt a desire to grab Aziraphale by his stupid white ruff and push him up against a wall. But there were no walls – they had all burned down. While he was thinking whether shoving the angel into the ashes would give his the same kind of satisfaction, Aziraphale went on giving him blows.

“He kept almost all of this speech, you know. And many others, besides.”

“You actually went to see _Antony and_…”

“…_Cleopatra_, yes. I did,” the angel admitted without any trace of guilt. “And in case you worried about Cleopatra reminding me of Simonetta… well, she did and always will, but I am at peace with that now.”

Yes, pushing him in the ash and rolling him there would feel quite nice.

“But mostly what she reminded me of, as everything else in that play, was _you_, Crowley. And that night you shared your play with me.”

Pushing him, rolling him and holding him there, not letting him speak.

“I remember every word of it, you know.”

Candlelight was in his eyes, as he said that. It hurt the demon to look at him.

“Why don’t we agree it _has_ been performed, dear? In the best possible way.”

“Yes,” he said at last, mentally releasing the angel from the imaginary tumble in the ash. “It _was_ the best possible way, after all. Far from the mortal crowd. We are but symbols, didn’t you know? _Metaphors_, that’s what we are. We don’t _deserve_ a story of our own.”

“Will told you that?”

“Yes. With much eloquence.”

“Well. What can I say,” sighed Aziraphale. “Bollocks to him then!”

And Crowley laughed, while Aziraphale beamed and brushed off theatrical ashes from his dainty white shoes.

Turning to go, Aziraphale gave Crowley a sideways glance.

“I went back there again, you know,” he said, nonchalantly.

Very promising kind of nonchalance.

“Back where?”

“Scotland. Edinburgh, to be exact. I went there several times, actually.”

“The kipper place?!”

The surprise was genuine, but the demon added a dramatic flourish.

“Oh, it’s not that bad. Strangely, this city is growing on me. I think I’ll be going there again soon.”

“Well, godspeed,” Crowley can play the nonchalance game better than anyone. “If She wishes to grant it.”

Aziraphale frowned for a fraction of a second and then beamed.

“Thank you, dear. And… you know what?”

Here it comes. No idea what it will be, but the omens are good.

“Hmm?”

“Glasgow.”

“What about it”

“I only nipped in there for a day,” Azipraphale said, all pauses and pouts in the right places, “but, if I am not mistaken, which I don’t think I am, it looked like a place you might like.”

Definitely good omens.

“Glasgow is not far from Edinburgh, is it?”

“Not very far, no.”

“Are you tempting me, angel?”

“I’d say I am blessing you.”

“A demon blessed by an angel – will it hurt? Will it burn? Will it discorporate me?”

“I hope not,” Aziraphale answered, invisible wings stretching and quivering in the wind.

Brilliant omens, Crowley decided, and said out loud:

“I might give it a try then.”

And the angel smiled and went away, leaving his demon alone among the ashes of his dreams. There will be new ones, as they both well knew. After all, being but symbols, they were such stuff as dreams are made on.

Crowley smirked one last time and also went away, thinking of ways he could accelerate the punishingly slow progress of mechanical contraptions and bring about the invention of some cunning device, preferably a horseless carriage or something, that could easily take him to places.

Such as Scotland, for example.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Pendle Witches  
The trials of the Pendle witches took place in Lancashire in 1612. They are well documented and fictionalised. This is where Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman took the surnames "Device" and "Nutter".  
2\. The Fire  
Shakespeare's Globe was destroyed by fire in 1613: it was ignited by a theatrical cannon during the performance of "Henry VIII". They rebuilt it in 1614. The Globe's next curse was Puritans, but that is a completely different story.  
3\. The Scottish Play  
The curse and everything around "Macbeth" has always fascinated me, so I might come back to this topic, in Good Omens fandom or elsewhere. Meanwhile, I can always reread "Wyrd Sisters" by Terry Pratchett - which I can't stop recommending to everyone who's into Shakespeare and fantasy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Inktober 2019. Day 13: ASH](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21018758) by [Landi_Elliot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Landi_Elliot/pseuds/Landi_Elliot)


End file.
